


Five Minutes and Fifty Nine Seconds

by EmmyAngua (the_irene_to_my_molly)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Gen, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-21
Updated: 2012-01-21
Packaged: 2017-10-29 22:01:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/324634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_irene_to_my_molly/pseuds/EmmyAngua
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every person has their pressure point. Someone they want to protect from harm. Helen Williams, ex-wife of the cabbie-killer Jeff Hope, is sitting on Moriarty’s jury.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Minutes and Fifty Nine Seconds

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the following kinkmeme prompt: what if the hotel room juror was the ex-wife of the cabbie killer?
> 
> I’ve tried to be as accurate as possible regarding the trial but forgive me for any mistakes. We only saw two days of it. I’ve never been a juror either, but I’m sure you’ll agree the exceptional circumstances of the jury in this case could account for any differences. I will leave it up to you to decide how deluded Helen is as to the true nature of her husband.

[](http://pics.livejournal.com/irenetomymolly/pic/00001400/)

 

Hello Ms. Williams  
Welcome to the Westhampton Hotel Information Service  
 **  
IF YOU WANT YOUR BEAUTIFUL CHILDREN TO STAY BEAUTIFUL THEN FOLLOW MY INSTRUCTIONS...**

\--  
   
   
 **March 2009**  
   
Helen was packing clothes when the doorbell rang and her head was so wild with self-justifications and internal rants that she very nearly decided to not answer. They could just _piss off_.  
   
But she was the _responsible_ one in this household and Edith next door was getting a bit frail and might need help, so she thundered downstairs and yanked the door open.  
   
"Yes?" she snapped.  
   
The winter sunshine dazzled her for a moment, but the shadowed outline of the man at the door quickly cleared. He was clean cut and wearing a pale blue shirt with a matching tie. _Oh please god let it not be Jehovah's witnesses..._  
   
"Mrs. Hope? Hi! I'm Jim from West Electrical." He held out an identity badge. “Your husband called us about your son's television?"  
   
Just bloody typical. Jeff could not come home one day to the next, barely even kissed her on the cheek anymore, and didn’t seem to care if they paid their bills or not - but he remembered to call the frigging electrical shop when their son's cheap TV went on the blink.  
   
"Oh, uh, yes. It's upstairs." She opened the door inwards, waiting for the man to take his shoes off - and god, when had she started doing that? Even Edith next door didn't care if workmen tramped dirt into the carpet.  
   
She showed him the way to her son’s room. "It just fizzled out the other day. To be honest I don't think Owen will mind if you can't fix it - it used to be his sister’s set and its Barbie pink. Ruins his street cred when his friends play over."  
   
"Well I'll do my best," chirped Jim as he padded up the steps after her.  
   
Helen opened the football adorned door of her son's room, gestured to the TV, and after a half-hearted offer of a drink she left him to his work. Normally she’d have hovered around while he did his job, but today she just didn’t care.  
   
Back in the bedroom she was deciding which of Jeff's clothes could go to charity and which could leave with him when the door slammed shut downstairs.  
   
"I’m home!" barked Jeff.  
   
This wasn't a confrontation she wanted to have with the TV repairman in earshot, so Helen slipped from the bedroom and hurried downstairs.  
   
As always he looked tired – ironic as he’d been doing precious little work of late. It would have been so much easier if she could have pinpointed what was wrong; drinking, an affair… lord knows she’d tried. She’d begged him to consider that he might be depressed, or to look for other work if he hated driving so much, but he’d ignored her. He still played with the kids, still talked passionately with their son about West Ham players, which meant that whatever the problem was it was between him and her. Whatever had placed this wall between them, nothing she could do was able to break it down.  
   
But worry and loving concern had long since turned into irritation and so her only instinct when she saw him was to snap.  
   
"What the hell did you call the TV repairman for?" she hissed while Jeff toed off his scuffed boots. "Where are we going to get the money from to pay for that?"  
   
Jeff stilled. For a moment there was just the tiniest break in his never-altering blank expression. He looked afraid.  
   
"I didn't call a TV repairman.”  
   
   
\--  
   
   
Hello Mr. Horden  
Welcome to the Westhampton Hotel Information Service  
   
 **SUCH LOVELY EYES YOUR FIANCE HAS. WOULD YOU LIKE TO KNOW WHAT SHE LOOKS LIKE WITHOUT ANY? IF NOT THEN FOLLOW MY INSTRUCTIONS...**  
   
   
\--  
   
   
"Is he still in the house?" he asked quietly.  
   
The air seemed slightly thinner now, making her breaths shallower. One part of her mind was reminding her that it was probably and innocent mix up while the other was wondering what the women who played her on the Crimewatch reconstruction would look like.  
   
“He’s in Owen's room."  
   
"Stay down here," said Jeff.  
   
Her husband reached out and gently squeezed her arm. It was enough, in her panicked state, to bring tears to her eyes. It had been so long since she’d had even the most basic human contact from him.  
   
For a moment, for one glorious moment, it was as if her old husband was back. The one who'd been witty and had always seemed to know what she was thinking before she said anything. Could this be the moment they fixed things between them?  
   
Stiff backed, he climbed up the stairs and disappeared onto the landing. She heard a sharp rap on Owen's bedroom door and then muffled voices.  
   
The longer this went on for the more convinced she was that the man in the bedroom wasn't an axe murderer and she allowed herself to creep up the steps, pausing after every one.  
   
 _"-how dare you come into my house!"_ she heard Jeff growl.  
   
 _"Don't worry. I'm not going to charge you,"_ purred the man. _"Easy fix by the way - fuse - I've spent the last fifteen minutes going through your son's football cards while I waited. Fifteen David Beckham cards. It's sad really."  
   
"What do you want?"  
   
"An answer to my offer. Your family needs the money... and don't tell me there isn't a part of you that doesn't love the idea of causing others pain. You’ve done well to supress it so long. Personally I’d embraced it before I was out of my braces. They never did find that dentist, actually."  
 _  
Helen froze mid step. How did Jeff know a man like this? What secrets had he been keeping from her?  
   
All thoughts of reconciliation fled. Jeff had brought this man into their house. The baby could have been here. What if one of the kids had been home sick from school?  
   
When Jeff spoke, he sounded deadly. " _No. My answer's no. Is that all you came here for?"_  
   
There was a creak of floorboard as Jim - whoever he was - stepped across the carpet.  
   
 _"'No' is it?"_ he murmured. _"Well, you have my number. I reckon you might have changed your mind in a few hours. I’ll be on my way now. Byeee."_  
   
From her position halfway upstairs, Helen scrambled back down into the hall. She did not want this man to catch her listening in.  
   
Seconds later Jim sauntered down the steps, whistling as if nothing unusual had happened at all.  
   
"All fixed Mrs Hope!" he grinned as he opened the front door. “No charge.”  
   
   
\--  
   
   
Hello Mr. Maylow  
Welcome to the Westhampton Hotel Information Service  
   
 **YOUR PRETTY DAUGHTER IS TURNING INTO A LOVELY YOUNG WOMAN. IF YOU WOULD LIKE HER TO KEEP HER INNOCENCE FOR A WHILE LONGER THEN FOLLOW MY INSTRUCTIONS...**  
   
   
\--  
   
   
There was no power of earth that could have stopped Helen dashing after him and using every bolt on the door. Even the one that they never used and was so rusty that she nearly sliced her finger open.  
   
Even though she could hear the footsteps of her husband entering their bedroom.  
   
Should she call the school and check the children were safe? She'd left the baby at her mum's - this wasn't a confrontation she wanted with a new-born baby screaming in her arms - and surely nothing could have happened to the children.  
   
Could it?  
   
"Helen?!"  
   
The yell from the bedroom.  
   
Helen swallowed and slowly moved upstairs. Jeff was standing in the doorway to their room gesturing at the suitcases on the bed.  
   
"What the hell is this?" he snarled.  
   
She's rehearsed this, of course she had, but how could one cope with the reality of telling your husband of fifteen years, the father of your three children, the man who had sobbed when baby Amy was handed to him six months ago, that you want him to get out?  
   
But wasn’t today further proof that she didn’t know her husband anymore? Today he’d actually put them in danger through his association with this man. What else was he hiding from her?  
   
"I can't do this anymore, Jeff."  
   
   
\--  
   
   
Hello Dr. Donagal  
Welcome to the Westhampton Hotel Information Service  
   
 **YOUR OLD DAD IS SO PROUD OF HIS INDEPENDANCE ISN'T HE? IF YOU DON'T WANT HIM TO SPEND THE REST OF HIS DAYS HELPLESS THEN FOLLOW MY INSTRUCTIONS...**  
   
   
\--

The year that had followed was horrific by anyone's standards. Instead of custody battles, begs of reconciliations, and angry phone calls, she'd seen her husband's face on every news channel.  
   
Instead of getting stressed at the extra hours she’d had to take on at the hospital, she'd seen the victims’ holiday photos smiling out of every newspaper, unaware of the fate that was to befall them.  
   
She'd had to move after the rosebush in the front garden had been doused in petrol and set alight while they slept. The new place was smaller because she’d had to sell quickly and her wages didn’t stretch anywhere near far enough for a bigger mortgage.  
   
She’d had to change their names when the first journalist tracked them down. Williams - her maiden name. She’d drilled it into the two eldest, making them repeat it over and over; "Owen Williams. Sarah Williams. Amy Williams. They’re your names now."  
   
And there was the guilt too. The loving, whip smart husband she'd been besotted with had been dying. He'd never told her. He'd tried to protect them. He’d tried.  
   
How could she have blamed him for a little coldness, a little unreliability knowing what she now knew?  
   
Almost instantly it would be replaced with anger – if he’d told her they would have been ok. She’d never have wanted a separation and whatever time he had left could have been happy, in a bittersweet way. He could have had, as her grandma used to say, a good death. Instead he’d chosen to die trying to kill someone; he’d chosen a bullet through the head.  
   
But the events hadn't cemented in her mind until she'd checked her bank account one day and found it £10,000 better off.  
   
A mistake surely? He hand was on her mobile ready to dial the bank when she noticed the name given as the source of the money.

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/irenetomymolly/pic/00002ad7/)

Sir Jeffery Patterson was her husband's first victim.

A day later, another:  
   
[](http://pics.livejournal.com/irenetomymolly/pic/000031bb/)  
And then:

[ ](http://pics.livejournal.com/irenetomymolly/pic/00004wzp/)

£10,000 per victim. Suddenly that mysterious conversation between her husband and that bogus repairman made a lot of sense. If she’d not kicked Jeff out that day, he’d never have said yes to that evil man’s offer. Jeff had killed those people because of her selfishness.  
   
The next day the Victim Support charity found itself £30,000 better off.  
   
   
\--  
   
 **  
The Night Before the Trial**  
   
Helen was wondering what the other jurors were doing right now. They were in lush bedroom at a hotel she couldn't personally have afforded. They didn't know who they would be trying, but it had to be someone big for them to be shielded from media coverage even before the trial had begun.  
   
Or rather, the others didn't know who they were trying. It was obvious to Helen - who else's name had been in the papers for weeks on end? What other trial was expected to last for weeks?  
   
James Moriarty. She finally had his name. She finally understood the true nature of the man who had sauntered into her home that day.  
   
Had James Moriarty known she was going to be on the jury? Did he think that she didn't know who he was?  
   
Well she did. You don't easily forget unsettling events like the one of the bogus TV repairman, and you don't forget them when they coincide with the breakdown of your marriage. The fact his face had been burning through her dreams every night since that discovery in her bank account was just a bonus.  
   
She was going to make him pay for what he'd done to her family.  
   
Helen absently switched the television on. There was nothing she wanted to watch, but you had to use everything in the hotel room. On their honeymoon she and Jeff had pressed every pair of trousers they'd owned and made tea in the china tea set even though neither of them drank it. He'd rubbed the luxury bottle of free moisturisers into her back as they'd recovered from steamy sex in the bathroom.  
   
And here she was, fifteen years later, alone and missing her children.  
   
Only _there was a picture of them on the screen._  
   
She blinked in surprise and then sank, horrified, onto the bed as she finally comprehended the words above the picture.  
   
 **FOLLOW MY INSTRUCTIONS...**  
   
 **BRING BACK A UNANIMOUS VERDICT OF NOT GUILTY. DO IT QUICKLY. MY TIME IS MONEY.**  
   
Another image flashed onto the screen making her jump backwards in horror. It was a video image looking down from the ceiling of her mother's house. There was the sofa, and the scattered toys, and then her mother appeared on screen looking worn out from entertaining a toddler and two pre-teens. Owen came in and flopped onto the sofa, his eyes glued to the television just off camera.  
   
The video didn't go away. Helen stared at it until morning, long after the lights had been switched off and she'd watched her children be escorted to bed.  
   
Over the image - all night long - the same words flashed on and off.  
   
 **NOT GUILTY  
   
NOT GUILTY  
   
NOT GUILTY**

\---

**Second Day of the Trial  
Afternoon**

Just two days. It seemed impossible for the trial to be over that quickly.

Day one had established exactly what Moriarty was accused of (and that had taken up plenty of time) and had the famous Sherlock Holmes as a witness. Had he noticed she was the only one taking notes seriously (foreign shorthand or not)? Her other jurors were only concerned with looking as if they were considering evidence. Could Sherlock Holmes tell that the trial was a forgone conclusion? A show?  
   
But she still wrote every word of the evidence down. Doing so was a constant reminder the Moriarty was guilty.  
   
Everyone had expected day two to be the day when the dogfight between prosecution and defence would begin.  
   
 _“Your Honour… we’re… not calling any witnesses.”_  
   
She felt the ripple of confusion through her fellow jurors. How could they possibly bring back a verdict of not guilty without any defence?  
   
The jurors were already frightened and tense. Tired too because they, like her, must have already spent two nights staring at a television screen while their entire world narrowed to a broadcast of their unknowing loved ones. Moriarty had pushed them to the brink – he’d made them tired, and frightened, and placed enormous pressure on them all. There would be no debate in that jury room.  
   
But if that man had chosen her to be on his jury, he’d made a grave mistake.  
   
   
\--  
   
   
 **Second Day of the Trial  
Early Morning**  
   
"Mum?"  
   
Helen stared at the image of her mother on the hotel television screen. She was still in her dressing gown, ever the early riser. The older woman was looking puzzled at the early phone call and Helen found herself nuzzling her head into the receiver to get closer to reassuring voice.  
   
"Helen? What's the matter? The children are fine... you sound like you've been crying. Is it the dreams again?"  
   
"No, not the dreams. It's just... I need you to bring the kids into the living room."  
   
"Now?"  
   
"Please mum. It's important."  
   
A look of irritation flashed over her mother's face, visible even from the corner of her profile that Helen could see on the screen.  
   
"Wait then..."  
   
After a long delay while her mother tried to raise three children from deep sleep, they arrived, bleary-eyed and shivering, in the living room.  
   
Helen reached out to touch the small figure of Amy as she wobbled on her feet.  
   
"Mum?"  
   
Owen's voice.  
   
"Hello sweetheart. I'm sorry for waking you up I just... needed to talk to you."  
   
"Have you seen the murderer yet?" asked Owen, suddenly wide awake.  
   
No convincing on earth had made Owen believe that his mother wouldn't be trying a top level trial. Jury duty was exciting to a child.  
   
"Yes, I have seen him," she said.  
   
"Are you going to send him to prison?"  
   
She paused.  
   
"Owen. Remember... remember when you were getting picked on by Donnell Wade?"  
   
"Muuum..."  
   
"And remember I said that you have to stand up to bullies? Otherwise they'll just walk all over you. Remember I said that?"  
   
"Yeah..."  
   
"I love you. I love you so much." She screwed up her eyes, willing her emotions to travel down the phone. "I've always stood up for what I believe in. I'm going to do that today. Even if no one listens."  
   
"And I'm sorry. You've all been hurt so badly and I'm going to hurt you most of all..."  
   
Owen was silent, looking serious on the screen. She caught his worried look at Sarah.  
   
Helen sniffed. "Now put me onto your sisters. And remember what I said Owen. Promise me you'll remember."  
   
   
\--  
   
   
 **Deliberation  
Minute Two**  
   
The deliberation room was airy but old fashioned. Helen didn't think they were going to get time to enjoy it.  
   
"Well," said a brisk man who had been voted head juror at lightning speed, seemingly based only on his blue striped tie and professional haircut, "show of hands?"  
   
They nodded. Helen sat still. She knew full well what was about to happen.  
   
"Not guilty?"  
   
One, two, three, four, five, six, eight, nine ten, eleven, twelve.  
   
Eleven eyes landed on her - juror seven.  
   
"Guilty," ground out the head juror from between clenched teeth.  
   
Helen raised her hand.  
   
   
\--  
   
   
 **Deliberation  
Minute Three  
 **  
This was no normal jury. This was a room full of people who had everything to lose and everything to fight for. Right now they didn’t see Moriarty as the enemy – she was.  
   
She was the only thing standing in the way of safety for their children and parents and lost loves and who knew what else. Eleven people who’d had an entire trial to visualise the horrific things Moriarty might do.  
   
Perhaps they, like her, had been caught up in his web before. Maybe they knew as well as she did how dangerous he could be.  
   
In short, what happened was that eleven angry people turned on her.  
   
Jury discussions may be known to get a little heated, but never one with a personal motivation.  
   
There were no CCTV cameras in the jury room either.  
   
She’d tried to be dignified and spoke softly. “You know how dangerous he is. We can’t let threats get in the way of justice.”  
   
“Can you fucking hear yourself?” shrieked a blonde woman. “You might only have a few cats to worry about you cold hearted bitch - but I have children! He said he was going to-”  
   
 _“My daughter-”  
   
“My husband-”  
   
“We have to decide quickly here. If he thinks we’re not taking his threats seriously who knows what he might do as a warning…”  
   
“He said time was money…”_  
   
Voices overwhelmed her and even if she tried to be reasonable she couldn’t convince them. She’d known she’d never do it. Getting eleven people to put their loved ones at risk? Impossible.  
   
But she was going to fight. If all she could do was make a stand in a jury room where no one would ever know what she’d done… then she’d have at least done something.  
   
“You think I’m not scared?!” Helen shouted over the rabble. She stood up, unsteady in her rarely-worn heels, and slapped her hands down so hard on the table that they burned.  
   
“I said goodbye to my kids this morning! And I knew full well that I could destroy them. But he has taken enough from them already and I can’t believe that none of you are brave enough to make a stand – whatever the cost. You’re all cowards!”  
   
   
\--  
   
   
 **Deliberation  
Minute Four**  
   
“ _I AM NOT A COWARD_!” yelled the burliest of the jurors. In one moment he was on his feet and dragging her towards the wall – and in her unsteady heeled state she could offer no resistance. Helen felt her head spin as was slammed into it. “If I had to lick Hitler’s arse I would for the sake of my daughter.”  
   
Still dazed, Helen found a sneer to plaster across her face: “Then you _are_ a coward. And an arse-licking one.” Agony as she was slammed again. The burly man was holding her off the ground by the jacket and no one was helping her. “Cause I’d fight anyone and anything for my children.”  
   
“See if you’ll still be saying that when they haven’t got eyeballs anymore,” snarled a young man, barely twenty.  
   
She could only watch with alarm as others started to rise from their seats. Some of them were still yelling amongst themselves. “Get her OVER here and make her vote guilty!”  
   
She realised, dazedly, as she was dragged to the table that these were normal people. People who paid bills and went on dates. Fear had made them animals. They might wake up tomorrow cringing at their actions, but there could be no reasoning right now.  
   
   
\--  
   
 **  
Deliberation  
Minute Five**  
   
It was eleven against one.  
   
The young man and the blonde woman held her in her seat. The burly man grabbed her clenched arm.  
   
“Who votes not guilty?” asked the head juror.  
   
Her arm was yanked into the air.  
   
The head juror marched over to the locked door and banged on it.  
   
“We’ve reached a verdict.”  
   
   
\--  
   
   
Helen locked the doors when she got her children home. Selfish relief for their safety was mixed with dread that Moriarty was out there somewhere and that somehow he might have known of her futile resistance.  
   
“School is cancelled,” she told her ecstatic children. “You can play computer games or… bake cupcakes, or do whatever you like. But stay indoors.” What was flour all over the kitchen or endless reruns of Peppa Pig if it meant they were with her?  
   
Owen bounded off upstairs. Sarah tapped away at her mobile phone and ate Haribos Helen had been hiding in the cupboards. Eventually too much excitement knocked little Amy out and so Helen cradled her against her side while watching an old episode of Friends.  
   
“MUM!” bellowed Owen from the top of the stairs, “MY TVS GONE FUNNY!”  
   
No sooner had he said it when the one in the living room went black.  
   
Amidst the cacophony of complaints and shrieks from a newly woken Amy, the doorbell rang.  
   
Helen, distracted by the cacophony from three TV-less children, got up to answer it.  
   
“I believe you’ve got a TV in need of repair?”  
   
Helen balked at the young, be-suited man on the doorstep.  
   
Moriarty leaned in, his nose crinkled, and playfully whispered: “Did you really think I couldn’t get a camera into the deliberation room?”  
   
   
   


**The End**

  
   
   


 

 


End file.
